


Passage

by London_Fog



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_Fog/pseuds/London_Fog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four snippets, through their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passage

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, finally got this done. I’m really passionate about Hadvar and Ralof, okay? Okay. Truly the Romeo and Juliet of Skyrim, but better. I hope they get a happy ending, yeah?

Eight

The river trickled, a lazy flow. In the morning light, it shimmered, a faint glow of gold and turquoise that gently bade him over.

Ralof peeled his boots off, folded the hem of his pants up hurriedly, and stuck his bare feet into it, the cool water a friendly respite from the heavy air of Sun’s Height. He let himself fall back, leaning to rest his head on the rough bark of birch, and closed his eyes to listen to the quiet call of the cicadas in the distance, and the birdsongs that echoed from tall trees that kissed the skies.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to recognise Hadvar; his voice alone was enough. Still, he did, to watch Hadvar mirror his own actions, settling down beside him to enjoy the chill of the river.

“Hey,” He murmured, as Hadvar rested his head against Ralof’s own shoulder, Hadvar’s brown hair tickling his cheeks. Hadvar yawned, a movement he could feel, and knocked his face against Hadvar’s head. “Tired?”

“Mm.” Hadvar sighed. “Uncle Alvor had me up all night helping out with things for the Festival.”

“Again?” Ralof wrapped an arm around Hadvar to pull him closer, pressed up against him.

“Mm.” Hadvar said again, and fell asleep soon after. Ralof let him, and they stayed that way until the sun began its descend, slipping behind the mountains for a long-waited slumber.

-

Sixteen

It started off silly.

A wrestle in the mud about something absurd, an accidental slip of hands and tangled feet, somehow causing pink lips finding their way to each other.

Surprise, and hasty pulling apart. They looked away from one another, embarrassed, but unmoving. Two chests close, barely touching with each breath.

Hesitant. Careful.

They pressed their lips together, cautious, then again, and again, and again, until it was rhythmic and familiar, and they laughed, let those sounds fill the night, let it rise like campfire smoke, touching the stars that swirled across the deep blue.

Let the adults wage war, let them ache and cry and hurt and long for salvation. They were children – they deserved to love. Let their only bruises be from well-kissed lips, tender and gentle, their only pain from the cold air that lingered when warm words were not breathed.

Let them adjourn in their romance, let them dream and dare before the fighting takes them too.

*

Hadvar had left first. Gone to fight for the Imperial Legion, true to his ancestry.

And then the High King Torygg died, killed by Ulfric, and with him, the Stormcloaks rose. Ralof went with them, finding a calling in the truths of the blue-swathed soldiers.

*

Twenty-Four

He saw him, recognised him in an instant. It had been five years, at least.

The pain he felt in his chest though, that he did not understand. He knew it, had expected it, thought he had beaten it (the nights where he lay alone, desperate, wet cheeks, stained bedsheets, nothing ever curing the cold, silent, loneliness, and he could scream to the world and no one would hear), and yet it returned, in greater strength. It’s a warm Mid Year’s day, but the winds that brewed have never felt colder.

He looked, and he saw the defiance when their eyes met. A vivid, ugly anger, pouring from honeyed eyes that once spoke tender caresses, and the wound that had been cut deep by betrayal that bloomed in pain again, like the lonely, broken nights.

The fury was set in his shoulders, rigid, he could see, and fiercer pride, a grown man, brave, selfless, loyal, unwavering. They said it was better to have loved and lost and never to have loved and all – those nights alone would do more than disagree – but as he stood here, watching, studying  _him_ , he thought, he could never love another more than this.

Both hate and love consumed him, and he willed himself to steady his own voice, surprised when he hears it ring clear and true.

“Ralof of Riverwood, step forward.”

To kill his only love by his hand… should he not kill himself as well? For he knew he surely could not live with himself after today, but nor could he abandon his nation and his comrades, and let the rebel-scum run free.

But his own person, he was an individual. When Ralof moved in line with aggressive reluctance, he tried to reason with himself – if Ralof wasn’t sorry, then damn it, why should he be? But no. He couldn’t, because he loved him too much, and his only rope thus far was the knowledge that Ralof was well, Ralof was alive, and that Ralof had gone on to be great, and that their only tragedy was a difference in sides.

And yet… as ever, too loyal,  _too damn proud_ , both of them, to give in.

He could only pray then, pray a silent prayer. A prayer to Mara, for forgiveness for choosing duty over love. To Stendarr, for mercy on Ralof’s soul, for clemency for the sins committed in war. And to Arkay, to watch over Ralof in death with favourable eyes, grant him safe passage and protection.

And... and a prayer to _Talos,_ for forgiveness in executing this unfair justice.

And maybe the Gods heard, perhaps, a wretched man’s last whimper, and granted them both some redemption. The great dragon that fell upon them seemed to echo of death itself, but the execution row was scrambled, and he caught sight of Ralof escaping, and he breathed.

Their eyes met, a final time, equally resolute, and only a bit less angry than before. If it wasn’t goodbye then, then surely it was farewell now?

 -

Twenty-seven

“You bastard.”

Ralof spits, and even before Hadvar could speak, the crunch of knuckles against jaw sounded. A rightly deserved punch, he thinks, and he steels himself for another.

Except, he finds himself held, warm, longing limbs, tight against his body, and he feels limp, weak, the fear leaving his form, and he’s desperate for more. He sinks, pressing harder, pulling closer, grateful and terrified –  _please don’t leave, please don’t be a dream_.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, and it’s not enough. The war in the world may be over, but between them…

“Shut up.” Ralof mutters in quiet anger, hot tears and flaming words, and kisses him. They don’t speak of love, because the rightness when their lips touch is enough.


End file.
